She said it in her warmest, most caring voice. At least, she hoped that was how it was coming across. She didn't like Danny Young. It was a terrible thing to admit to, even to herself. But there it was. He was a strange little boy. None of the other kids in her class liked him, either. That was a shame, but not unheard of. Third graders can be picky and clannish, much more so than their parents realized.

However, Allison always made it a point to find something likable about every child. Even the ones who had been truly terrible over the years, she'd found some way to at least pity them for their situations. She never blamed the child. It was brutish parents, poverty, circumstances beyond their control that made children difficult. She belived in every child in her class, every year. It was not just a saying or a pose. She cared about every child, and wanted them all to succeed.

Until Danny Young. She tried and tried to find some way to connect with him. After seven months, she finally admitted to herself that she did not want him to succeed. She just wanted him gone.

"What is it about my behavior that you're concerned about, Ms. Clarksen?"

It was like fingernails on a blackboard. The little bas... the little boy was always so calm! He never got upset or angry or out of line. He never misbehaved or spoke out of turn or turned his homework in only half-done.

But he never smiled. He never laughed. He didn't play with anyone. He was so... so... controlled! That was it, he was far too controlled for a nine year old boy. They should be wild, free spirits, eager to laugh or cry. Emotions should be running high in them, like waves crashing on a shore. But Dannny was like a still pond. No, even worse, she thought, he was like a frozen pond. Smooth, clear, motionless.

Cold.

She shivered. This was another conference without a parent. Danny's parents never came to conferences. They signed all the permission slips, and corresponded with her by e.mail, but she had never met them. There had been other families in the past that didn't care about their children. It was a tragedy, but she reached out to the kids and helped them grow and move on into fourth grade. She hope that she made them better, but there was precious little a teacher could do for kids without a family.

She wondered what kind of parents Danny had.

"Ms. Clarksen?"

She started slightly, as he interrupted her thoughts. So damned polite. What was wrong with him, what was it about him that bothered her so?

"Danny, you made our visitor uncomfortable with your behavior today. This was the first time I've had to speak to you about paying attention in class."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Clarksen," he said, "it won't happen again."

Too quickly. He agreed too quickly. All of the other kids were bored to tears by Hua Feng's father. He was an engineer at the Cryodyne, the aerospace firm. A very smart man, no doubt, but his Chinese accent was so thick the class could barely understand him, and they were all chattering and twitching. Except for Danny. He was absolutely rapt by the tedious drone about circuits and electrons and surfaces and things. It made Danny's ouburst all the worse. Everyone had thought Mr. Feng was boring, but shouting it out in the middle of the presentations! The entire class had laughed, and poor Hua, already embarrassed about her father's poor English, was crying over how shamefully her father had been treated.

"Danny, it looked to me like you were actually listening to Mr. Feng. You were writing notes down, copying some of what he'd said. Why would you be so rude to him? Why did you say what you did? That he was... was boring?"

"I didn't say..." Danny stopped.

For the first time, Danny's face flushed. He looked embarassed!

Feeling terrible as she did so, the teacher pressed home her advantage, the first chink in the little boy's armor that she had come across. It was mean and it was petty, but she couldn't help herself.

"Tell me, Danny. Tell me why you did that. You must have known that calling Mr. Feng boring would hurt Hua's feelings. Why did you do it?"

"I didn't call him boring."

"Danny," she said, warming to her subject, "don't lie. If there is one thing I won't tolerater, it's dishonesty."

"I didn't call him boring. I didn't say he was boring."

"I heard you say it, young man. We all did. Don't try to deny it."

Danny looked her in the eye. It took only seven seconds before she cracked and looked away.

"I didn't say he was boring. You misheard what I said." The little boy got up from his seat in front of her big wooden desk.

"And where do you think you're going? Sit down this instant!" She used her command voice.

It didn't work. Danny picked up his notebook, the twenty-nine cent spiral kind, opened it to the one of the last pages and dropped it on her desk.

"Goodbye, Ms. Clarksen. I don't think I'll be coming back."

Shocked, she watched him walk towards the door and she watched him leave.

In the silence, she looked down at the notebook.

"Clever idea, but he's going about it like an idiot. He doesn't want to use a chromatogenic infiltration approach, he should be using a plasma couple vapor deposition rig to lay down his dipole layer! That would give him the charge drainage and electron flow balance he needs, while also containing the B-field. And he shouldn't be using silicon, that's too big of an electron shell to adjust the containment. What would be good for that? Erbium? Yttrium? NO!!! BORON! BORON!!!"

==========Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here

She said it in her warmest, most caring voice. At least, she hoped that was how it was coming across. She didn't like Danny Young. It was a terrible thing to admit to, even to herself. But there it was. He was a strange little boy. None of the other kids in her class liked him, either. That was a shame, but not unheard of. Third graders can be picky and clannish, much more so than their parents realized.

However, Allison Clarksen always made it a point to find something likable about every child. Even the ones who had been truly terrible over the years, she'd found some way to at least pity them for their situations. She never blamed the child. It was brutish parents, poverty, or other circumstances beyond their control that made children difficult. She believed in every child in her class, every year. It was not just a saying or a pose. She cared about every child, and wanted them all to succeed.

Until Danny Young. She tried and tried to find some way to connect with him. After seven months, she finally admitted to herself that she did not want him to succeed. She just wanted him gone.

"What is it about my behavior that concerns you, Ms. Clarksen?"

It was like fingernails on a blackboard. The little bas... the little boy was always so calm! He never got upset or angry or out of line. He never misbehaved or spoke out of turn or turned his homework in only half-done.

But he never smiled. He never laughed. He didn't play with anyone. He was so... so... controlled! That was it, he was far too controlled for a nine year old boy. They should be wild, free spirits, eager to laugh or cry. Emotions should be running high in them, like waves crashing on a shore. But Dannny was like a still pond. No, even worse, she thought, he was like a frozen pond. Smooth, clear, motionless.

Cold.

She shivered. She tried to call his parents to be a part of this, but got only voice mail at the regular telephone number. It wasn't worth the paperwork of using the emergency contact number. She had never met Danny's parents; they never came to conferences. They signed all the permission slips, and corresponded with her by e.mail, but she had never met them. There had been other families in the past that didn't care about their children. It was a tragedy, but she reached out to the kids, did her best to help them grow and ushered them on into fourth grade. She hoped that she made them better, but there was precious little a teacher could do for kids without a family.

She wondered what kind of parents Danny had.

"Ms. Clarksen?"

She started slightly, as he interrupted her thoughts. So damned polite. What was wrong with him, what was it about him that bothered her so?

She cleared her throat. "Danny, you made our visitor uncomfortable with your behavior today. This was the first time I've had to speak to you about paying attention in class."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Clarksen," he said, "it won't happen again."

Too quickly. He agreed too quickly. All of the other kids were bored to tears by Hua Feng's father. He was an engineer at Cryodyne, the aerospace firm. A very smart man, no doubt, but his Chinese accent was so thick the class could barely understand him, and they were all chattering and twitching. Except for Danny. He'd appeared to be absolutely rapt by the tedious drone about circuits and electrons and surfaces and things. It made Danny's outburst even worse. Everyone had thought Mr. Feng was boring, but barking it out in the middle of his presentation! The entire class had laughed, and poor Hua, already embarrassed about her father's poor English, was crying over how shamefully her father had been treated.

"Danny, it looked to me like you were actually listening to Mr. Feng. You were writing notes down, copying some of what he'd said. Why would you be so rude to him? Why did you say what you did? That he was... was boring?"

"I didn't say..." Danny stopped.

For the first time, Danny's face flushed. He looked embarrassed!

Feeling terrible as she did so, the teacher pressed home her advantage, the first chink in the little boy's armor that she had come across. It was mean and it was petty, but she couldn't help herself.

"Tell me, Danny. Tell me why you did that. You must have known that calling Mr. Feng boring would hurt Hua's feelings. Why did you do it?"

"I didn't call him boring."

"Danny," she said, warming to her subject, "don't lie. If there is one thing I won't tolerate, it's dishonesty."

"I didn't call him boring. I didn't say he was boring."

"I heard you say it, young man. We all did. Don't try to deny it."

Danny looked her in the eye. Cold and still, unblinking. It took only seven seconds before she cracked and looked away.

"I didn't say he was boring. You misheard what I said." The little boy got up from his seat in front of her big wooden desk.

"And where do you think you're going? Sit down this instant!" She used her command voice.

It didn't work. Danny picked up his notebook, the twenty-nine cent spiral kind, opened it to the one of the last pages and dropped it on her desk.

"Goodbye, Ms. Clarksen. I don't think I'll be coming back."

Shocked, she watched him walk towards the door and she watched him leave.

In the silence, she looked down at the notebook.

"Clever idea, but he's going about it like an idiot using that chromatogenic infiltration system. He should be using a plasma coupled vapor deposition chamber to lay down his dipole layer - that would give him the charge drainage and electron flow balance he needs, while also containing the B-field!

And he shouldn't be using silicon, that's too big of an electron shell to adjust the containment. What element would be good for that? Erbium? Yttrium? No, boron! BORON!!!"

==========Comments and constructive criticisms welcome. Other #FridayFlash pieces can be found here

Item #1. I was feeling antsy about my decision to post a first draft of a story. Thought about reneging and editing it, cleaning up typos and awkward sentences. Just re-read it, though, and I'll let it stand.

What the hell, as a first draft it's fine.

Item #2. On Twitter, I saw the first announcements of another writing contest at Editor Unleashed. I recall the last contest over there as being a strange and oddly run affair. The topic for this one, "Why I Write", will surely bring out a great deal of purple prose, maudlin confessionals, angel-winged inspirationals and forced humor (from people trying to game the system).

Unlike the last contest, which was an open vote capped by a star chamber panel opinion and decision ultimately made by the E in C, this one will skip the public part entirely, and will be judged behind closed doors, as most contests are.

I'm not going to participate in this one. I write for reasons that are complicated, and I wouldn't be able to summarize them in a 750 word chunk that would win any awards.

The short version is that I feel joy when I write, I feel pride when I've written, and I'm thrilled when other people are moved by my writing. Writing is therapy, writing is love, writing is sharing, writing is connecting, writing is serenity and balance and peace and excitement and life.

All of which reasons are important, even critical to me.

But it's not something I can express in the kind of prose that other people would think very much of in a contest.

n.b. Update, Nov 10. The final rules were recently announced and do include a public voting of some kind.

I wrote a great story, one that brought tears to my eyes. I had it in mind for this Friday, the last one before NaNoWriMo kicks in.

However, I liked the story a lot, thought it was quite powerful. So good, in fact, that I sent it off to an online mag instead of putting it up.

This is not to say that #FridayFlash gets my seconds and irregulars. It's just that I felt quite moved by this little piece. Let's see if the editor agrees. If not, I'm going to keep shopping it around. It's that good (IMNSHO).

That left me with a hole in my schedule. Rather than have nothing for Friday, I knocked out a story half an hour ago. Then, in a burst of craziness, I decided to load it up as the #FridayFlash, first draft warts and all. What I locked and loaded is what came out of my fingertips under a Write or Die session - 995 words in 29 minutes.

Why am I doing this? Hell if I know. I'm sure it could be made better by attention. I'm just feeling a little crazy at the moment. Nothing like a stupid stunt under such circumstances. Unlike previous similarly motivated stunts which involved alcohol, cigarettes, sharp objects and/or initiation of ill-considered personal relationships, this one only involves risk to my reputation.

So, if you ever had any burning desire to know what one of my first drafts looks like, and have the opportunity to comment and critique it, come back on Friday!

There's a grammatical mistake and I spotted a few typos, too, to say nothing of the stylistic or plotting blunders. I'm sure people will spot more.

Or at least my most popular and widely-read work has been my "Ode to the Semicolon". It appeared a month ago in the GrammarGirl newsletter; I got more than 100 hits that day.

The monthly stats for this blog have looked great all month as a result. Tomorrow, however, it drops off the listings, so I'll go back to normal.

What is normal? On Fridays, I will get 30-50 hits, depending on how hard I push my #FridayFlash and how good it is. Other days might be a dozen or less. Clearly, people are more interested in my writing and less interested in my ruminations and thoughts about writing.

Sunday afternoon, and R.J. was hanging out in the laundry room, waiting for his dryer to finish. He always waited for his stuff. It drove him crazy when people just dropped their clothes off then went back up to their dorm room. Half the time, they didn't come back for hours or even days, and they were the ones who got all pissy if you took their stuff out of a machine. There were only six washers and dryers. He thought it was a matter of simple courtesy to get his stuff in and out as efficiently as possible.

There was no way they were going back up to read or study; they could have done that down here at either of the beat up old desks. No, they were going back up to watch TV or hang out. There were no bars or WiFi down here in the basement, either, so people couldn't use their phones or laptops. Only the dedicated students stayed and read actual books or went over actual notes while the laundry tumbled.

Dedicated, hard working, lonely, friendless students. He looked up from his book and shook his head a bit as he rejected the thought. Too hard on himself again. No, he thought, not friendless. I have lots of friends. Or rather, I have lots of classmates and a few friends. He'd just started down the old, familiar path of wondering if he had enough real friends when, as though on cue, one of his real friends walked in. Teegan was carrying an empty laundry basket.

"Hey, R.J.", she said.

"Hey, Teeg. Great minds think alike, huh?" He smiled at her. She smiled back, then turned to take her laundry out of one of the washers.

Teegan lived in Willott House with him, and she was in his American Civ and Calc 201 classes, too. She was really bright and was also kind of a smart-ass with the Civ TA. He thought that was a riot, although he never really spoke out of turn himself.

She carried her wet clothes to the one empty dryer, next to the wooden desk where he was sitting. He pushed back out of her way so she could start putting items into the machine. T-shirts, jeans, a towel, socks... white cotton underwear with pink elastic...

R.J. looked away, and lifted his book up with a bit of a jerk. He knew even as he did it that he was overreacting, that he looked silly. He was an adult now. He shouldn't be embarrassed at seeing a girl's underwear!

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teegan smile very slightly as she shook out the wadded clothes, item by item, before adding them in. All except for the bras, which were apparently not going in the dryer. These she hung over the side of the basket. Beige satin, beige satin, gray athletic. R.J. felt his face grow hot.

"So, R.J.", she said, startling him, "what's the matter? You've never seen a bra before?" She pulled the bras down into the empty basket and stood up. She kicked the dryer door closed and began to fish in the right front pocket of her jeans for some quarters.

"Ah... I, uh..." He tried to think of something witty and cool to say, but drew a complete blank. The absurdity of the scene struck him. He gave a laugh and shook his head. Screw it. It was just Teegan. "All right, fine, Teeg, you caught me off guard. Must be a guy thing. Automatic response to lingerie or something. Sorry. It was just a... a thing, or something, I dunno. Never mind. Sorry." He should stop talking, just shut the hell up for Christ's sake, but she was smiling as she stood next to him, holding her basket with its three damp bras.

"It's OK, R.J. Don't worry about it." She turned away from him and reached over to put the six quarters into the dryer. Her T-shirt rode up in the back. She was wearing white underwear with pink elastic. He lifted his book slightly, but didn't look down at it.

She straightened as she turned around, repositioned her basket. She smiled at him again then headed toward the door. "See you around, R.J."

"Yeah, see you," he said to her back. He watched her walk toward the door and was swept up by the craziest goddamned impulse. Years later, he would marvel at going straight to Talk without passing Think.

"Hey, Teeg?" no no don't stupid stupid don't don't

At the door, she turned back to him. "Yeah?"

"I was just wondering," don't do it don't no don't stupid don't "would you maybe like to go out sometime?" NO NO DON'T SHIT YOU STUPID FUCK NO NO "You know, to a movie or something?"

Teegan's eyebrows went up, then came together as surprise was replaced by thought. She didn't answer right away, but just looked at him, considering.

I finished the second draft of an audio script I'm working on. On the last pass through, I cut a bunch of sloggy crap that was slowing down the fourth scene and fixed up the ending.

Scenes 1 and 2 are still too slow, but I'm not sure how to fix them yet. This is my first play, and setting things up take a little expository dialogue. It helped a lot w/re: to punching things up by making the exposition in Scene 1 in the form of an argument among three people instead of a discussion between two. It needs to be tighter still, though.

As NaNoWriMo approaches, I realize that I'm not ready for it, not really. I have a general plot, a cast of characters, a general locale and a few specific locations in which to have things happen.

I know who is going to live, who is going to die. I know what condition my protag is in at the outset, I know the challenges I'm going to throw at him to make him change and grow. I know who the supporting cast is, who the bad people are, why they are bad, and what they want out of life.

In the general plot outline I wrote, I tried to balance scenes of pathos with scenes of humor, violence with sex, despair and fear with hope and reconciliation. I alternate exposition with action, conflict with resolution.

I've connected with writing buddies on the NaNoWriMo website, made comments in Twitter and various forums, made public my intentions on this blog.

So what haven't I done?

I haven't told anyone in real life, because I don't think I would get any support. Rather the opposite, in fact.

I haven't worked out the logistics of time and space. I don't yet know how I'm going to squeeze out three hours a day, even if I put this blog on mothballs for a month and stop doing FridayFlash.

I need a certain amount of silence and privacy to write, a certain amount of space. That's not something I can get very easily.

All of this begs the question: is it possible to do NaNoWriMo quietly and unobtrusively? To fly under the radar and maintain the rest of your life as usual without any telltale signs?

I'm working out a strategy for doing NaNoWriMo. I'm trying to be more organized than in the past. I succeeded in 2006 mostly through brute force, making up many of the plot elements as I went along, characters, locations, events, etc. The end result had only a passing resemblance to the novel I'd had in mind when I started out.

For three years, I've been mulling over how to fix that effort, and have written a bunch of new material to flesh out the revised version I have in my head. However, I've more or less come to the conclusion that my 2006 novel is so deeply flawed as to be not salvageable. If I want to do anything with any of that material, I will have to start that novel over.

I'd prefer that not be my fate this year. So, in 2009 I'm being more organized. This should help to facilitate the actual writing as well. I've set out the plot points in a set of 20 chapters, with descriptions of each. For example:

*Chapter 1*MacDonald in the trenches. He's convinced he's going to die any day, but secure that he's going to heaven, having done his duty. he's almost killed, but his gloomy army buddy catches the bullet instead.

*Chapter 2*In the hospital. Reads the letters from his buddy's sister, sorrowful, tearful letters wanting to set things right, to heal over their estrangement. She's going to take his death hard! He realizes that he has an obligation to go and be with the grieving sister.

His captain wants to be rid of the gloomy gus, he's a bad apple who's ruining morale in the entire company. Captain takes the head wound as a chance to be rid of him.

*Chapter 3*Goes to England, meets buddy's family. Realizes that they are rich, rich, rich. Sister is a lined, worn, grieving shade. he's moved by her devotion, by the lost chance of reconciliation. He wonders what it was that came between them.

Each of these form a general basis for the plot, the characters and their interactions. I'm thinking that each chapter will have three scenes, more or less. Each chapter needs to be 2500 words to hit 50,000. That's only 850 words per scene. If I write two scenes per day, that's NaNoWriMo.

After NaNoWriMo, if I set about revising scene by scene, I would flesh each of them out to 1400 words. This is about equivalent to a long-ish flash piece, so it's a decent length for a little set-piece. 1400 * 3 * 20 gives me a book of 84,000 words, the right neighborhood for publishing.

The snowflake method, phase drafting, accretion... these are all minor variations on an approach of planning to write.

Now, for the bad news. Based on new information, it looks like real life may intrude on my November even more than I had anticipated. I hope I'll be able to do this.

“It’s just that I don’t hear you talk about it much. I don’t hear you talk about much of anything lately, even now that you’re home for the summer.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s great. It’s just, I guess, I want to take a break, you know? Just get away from it all, take a break, relax.”

“As long as everything’s OK.”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why, do I have a sign on my forehead saying, ‘Things Aren’t Fine’, or something?”

“Rick… you’ve been home for a week and haven’t called me. When you were home over spring break, I didn’t even know you were in town until Thursday. You said you were going to be at Jenny’s party, but you didn’t come.”

“I was busy. I’m working a lot at school and just wanted to hang out, decompress, OK? What’s the big deal?”

“Over winter break, you wanted to hang out with me.”

“For Christ’s sake, Kelly, knock it off, alright? What the hell difference does it make?”

“I need to know, Rick. When you stopped IMing me, I figured you were just busy. Then when you didn’t return my phone calls or e.mails, I figured…”

“Val… nothing. Nothing happened. What do you mean? Nothing happened on Valentines’s Day.”

“Ricky, please. I need to know.”

“No, you don’t. Nothing happened on Valentine’s Day.”

“Please, Ricky. Whatever it is, if it’s another girl or whatever, please Ricky, we just need to know what’s going on.”

“There’s no other girl! There’s nothing, nobody, nothing happened, not on Valentine’s Day or… wait a minute, ‘we’? Who’s we?”

“It’s me … and your mom. Ricky, honey, please, please calm down. If it was just me, that would be bad enough, but you stopped e.mailing her in the spring, too. She said she didn’t think much of it at the time, ‘cause you’d said things were getting busy going into midterms. When you didn’t e.mail say how the exams went, and didn’t call.”

“So? I was busy.”

“Ricky, you turned your phone off. She said you used zero minutes in the last four months. Your Facebook page hasn’t been updated in forever, you don’t call, you completely dropped off of Twitter - it’s like you died or something. Your mom said that over spring break, you stayed in your room and slept all the time. She can’t get you to talk about school at all. She called me because she hoped you might open up to me. Whatever it is, Ricky, we can handle it. Is it your grades? Is that it? If the University is too hard, you can transfer to State, or Tech, or even take a year off or something. Are you flunking out?”

“Jesus Christ, of course I’m flunking out! I haven’t been to class in months! I didn’t even know what rooms the finals were in. It’s gonna be a perfect score, ‘Fs’ across the board, just the thing for an overachiever like me. Won’t I be the pride of TriState Academy, the Valedictorian making good use of his scholarship. Jesus. Jesus.”

“Ricky, please, look at me. Calm down, look at me. It can’t be that bad. You had three Bs last semester, how … no, wait, hold it, I don’t care about the grade, I don’t! I care about you! What happened? Is it… is it drugs?”

“Oh, please. Even if I wanted to do drugs, I couldn’t afford them. I wish it were just drugs.”

“Then… what? Please tell me, Ricky. I love you, and I want to help you.”

“Just spit it out? OK, fine. On Valentine’s Day, I went to a party at Alpha Delta Psi, the football frat. Flirted with a girl, got drunk, made a pass at her. Her boyfriend took me into the basement and raped me. End of story.”

Faith had decided to tell her mother that her clarinet lesson had run late. She would have to do penance for the lie, but it was only a small sin, and worth the price. One last glance around confirmed that she was alone; all the other students had left. She opened the door to slip inside. Will was waiting for her, some homework notes and the Calculus II textbook open on the desk to give him a ready excuse in case he'd been discovered. He stood as she entered and opened his arms to her.

She hugged him, the feel and smell of his flannel shirt giving her a warm, hungry sensation that spread outward through her whole body. She loved this moment, the lovely strength of him. Her fingers spread across his back, she moved her hands and felt the smooth muscles along his spine, pulled him close, and closer. She shifted her posture, and he matched her movement, making it a full body hug, their hips together, his thighs pressed against hers.

The temptation, the desire welled up inside her, to kiss him, to feel his kiss on her. She suppressed it. It would be wrong, a major sin. Kissing leads to touching and touching leads to Hell - it was the core of what Mama had taught her. Never kiss a boy, never let a boy touch you under your clothes. She loved Will all the more for his understanding. He never tried to kiss her, never put his hands where they shouldn't go. Mama had never said anything about hugging, so technically, this wasn't a sin.

They'd been holding each other tightly, swaying to a silent, shared music for almost fifteen minutes before he broke away and eased himself down into the chair. She let him sit, then followed him. It was an armless old library chair, a big oak relic rescued from the dumpster when the school library had been renovated. It was solid and sturdy and more than strong enough for two people.

She straddled his right thigh in what was still technically a kind of hug, her jeans rubbing against his with a soft whicking sound when she moved. It was the change in position as much as her own weight that brought the seam of her jeans more directly, almost painfully up against her flesh. Standing, she'd been pressing herself to him as they held each other. When she'd started to stand on her toes to adjust the contact, started to pull against him in the beginnings of a rhythm, trying to make their embrace feel even better, he pulled away and sat.

On her toes, her blue sneakers on the floor supported her. Her hand on his chest balanced her. She rocked forward and back, again and again. It felt so good, like a hard, hard scratching of a deep itch that went on and on. She slid herself around on his leg, letting the wonderful soothing feeling reach deep within her. Her legs, her thighs, the core of her body all itched terribly and she could not get enough of him. If only she could ask him to touch her everywhere, even underneath her clothes.

Her clothes, her darned clothes - she was so hot and uncomfortable in them. It would be so nice to be rid of them, to be like she was in the shower. The hot itching of her chest inside her blouse and confining bra was threatening to drown out the itching of her body. Her bras had felt strange enough when Mama had bought them for her last fall, and wearing them was a bright, flushing embarrassment. They must have shrunk in the wash since then, for they were always too tight, too binding. Now, though... now they felt like a prison, like a heavy, wet blanket thrown onto a fire.

She imagined what it would feel like to open herself up to him, to let herself be free, to have his warm hands on her chest, all over her chest. She tried to picture his hands on her, directly on her, and her breath came in a gasp, the image jolting her entire body like a shock. She leaned into him, lifting her feet and pressing her thighs together, letting her entire weight rest on his leg as she rocked faster back and forth. She clutched at his chest, trying to push herself down harder, pull herself forward farther.

His arm came up before her and she grabbed hold, pushing against his strong arm, grinding herself down against his leg. His thigh came alive underneath her, his muscles bunching and flexing as she levered against his arm, over and over. She felt driven, she felt a terrible, wonderful need, she felt his body against hers and then, then, then like the light, weightless moment at the top of a rollercoaster, she felt nothing. A cold, tingling numbness spread outward from her center and she felt nothing at all from her knees all the way up to her ribs.

And then everything, everything in her entire body came together in one crashing, sun-bright burning heat that filled in the tingling and washed over it like a rolling, endless wall of flame. She let her body move, pulled herself back and forth to fan the flames and let them rise high, higher within her. She slid and pulled and rocked, and she was filled with the most wonderful, incredible happiness. Every part of her felt caressed, felt his body beneath hers, bathed entirely in serenity and throbbing warmth.

After a time, her motions slowed and she leaned forward to rest against his chest, her breathing deep and heavy. She could stay like this for years, the easy feeling of sleepy, relaxed pleasure filling her body. As her breathing eased, she became aware of the hardness between his legs, pressing against her thigh. A detached, remote sense of guilt came to her. He was always so good to her, but wasn't there anything she could do for him? Mama had told her not to let anyone touch her; Mama hadn't said anything about her touching someone else. Technically, then...

Her thoughts and the feeling of Will's strong body pulsing beneath her were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

"W.I.L.L., your telemetry signal is really... W.I.L.L., what are you doing?! Deactivate! Command override 'Archimedes' - deactivate! I'm terribly sorry, miss, let me help you up. Did it hurt you? Are you OK?"

It’s not because I think it will be easy. Far from it, in fact. I think it’s going to be an absolute pain in the ass. My schedule for November is difficult already, and I’m going to get a lot of opposition as I try to set aside at least two solid hours to write every single day during November. To write, to write, to actually write… not plan or think or consider or revise or map out or talk about writing.

To write.

So, if it’s going to be so hard, why do it?

Because my schedule is always difficult, and I almost always get opposition when I try to set aside time to write. If I don’t declare an intention and make it happen, it will never happen.

Ah, but what made me decide to do it? What tipped the scale?

Two things: the experience of doing #FridayFlash and some technical problems.

I’ve been writing the #FridayFlash pieces for six weeks. This is a piddling amount of time compared to some, but it is an exercise in discipline. Legion have been the promises I’ve made and broken about writing. A thousand words a day, thirty minutes a day, five thousand a week, one complete story a month, a fully revised novel by Christmas… life has intervened to scuttle them all.

By “life”, of course, I mean “me”.

The #FridayFlash deadlines were something I imposed on myself to force myself to write. One story, roughly a thousand words, every week. I’ve found that I can work with this, and enjoy the experience of the writing, be pleased with the outcome.

The feedback has been wonderful, too. Getting a clear read on when something works or doesn’t, when something or someone I’ve written is as exciting, beautiful or distasteful as I think it is… well, that’s just a joy.

And when I’ve written something that I think is deep, sparkling and clever, but 90% of the readership finds it confusing, opaque and disjointed? OK, it’s a somewhat less joyful experience to have a story flop, but it is a valuable experience.

Do I want to be an auteur or an author?

The other thing is a technical problem. I wrote a flash fiction piece which I quite liked. I’ll probably repost it next week for #FridayFlash, as it is the basis for my NaNoWriMo novel. With a thousand words in hand, I mapped out the rest of the story. It’s a great arc, great plot, great characters, and I’m excited about it.

I started writing, and got another 5000 words on it. Those 5000 words were not pure gold; they were a solid first draft, a good beginning. When they were erased, I was left right back where I started, with a flash story and a bunch of notes.

I haven’t done anything with the story since then. At first, because I didn’t have time or energy for it. Then, it was because I realized that what I needed was a solid block of time and effort. Not time enough to replicate the 5000 words I lost, but time enough to construct the framework of a full draft, start to finish. Time and space enough devoted to this WIP to really call it all forth out of the void.

I needed NaNoWriMo.

As foolish as it is, I’ll dive into NaNoWriMo this year, and pay the price for doing so. Formlessly waiting for me to pick up my hammer and chisels, my characters have been trapped in the stone long enough.

UPDATE: My name on NaNoWriMo is Tony Noland. Spectators and buddies are welcome.

There's an interesting post up by Jodi Cleghorn about working to a word count, and how that can be used as a writing tool.

I think it helps to develop discipline. Whether you start out thinking, "I need 60K of rough draft that I can polish up to 80K" or "I need 100K of rough draft that I can cut down to 80K", knowing what you want to do is important.

All of the jokes from the agents about 700K first novels should tell us something about discipline and restraint in writing.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde. But mine were false. At most they were worth five hundred francs!”

The proud and joyful look did not leave Mme. Loisel's face. Her expression did not change at all, even as Mme. Forester repeated, "My poor Mathilde!" They stood for a time, the one unmoving, the other moved all too deeply.

At length, Mme. Loisel, her face still frozen, removed her hands from those of the woman who had once been her friend. Without another word, she turned and slowly walked across the Champs Elysees, the morning sun lending her an air of almost nobility as she moved through the Jardin de Tuileries toward the dark, cold Seine.

Mme. Forester fell to her knees and held her child to her bosom, controlling her weeping with only the greatest of human effort.

"Ah, Mme. Forester. I trust I find you well?"

She lifted her eyes to see the tall, thin man that she had known would be nearby. His black coat and beaver hat were immaculate, as always. She tried to speak, but was unable to find words.

"So, Madame, you see how much can be accomplished with one small falsehood? And told so convincingly! Of course, our bargain will not actually be sealed until..." He paused, his head cocked as though listening for something. For a time, he stood so. Then, as if hearing a bell tower chime the hour, he broke into a smile.

"There, 'tis done. The Seine runs swiftly at this time of year. Look, see how the bloom returns to your daughter's cheeks. As I promised, her illness has now left her and she will grow to full womanhood."

It was true. Even as she beheld her darling Colette, the little girl seemed to grow stronger with every breath. Ah! But at what cost! Mme. Forester broke into open sobs and covered her child's head with kisses. She knew not whether her tears were those of joy or of fright and horror at what she had done. She lifted her eyes to the man in the black coat and whispered, "I hate you."

"As does most of the world, Madame, I assure you." The man in the black coat smiled as long as her tears lasted. Then, with the air of a man who has concluded a piece of business, he tipped his hat to her.

"Good day, Mme. Forester." He made to turn, but paused, dipping a hand into his coat pocket. "Ah, one last little matter nearly slipped my mind. I won't be needing it anymore, so I return it to you, perhaps as a present for your daughter. A piece almost as fine as the one in your right-hand jewelry case. You recognize it, I trust?" He held out his hand to her.

Her heart fluttered and leapt to see her necklace, her own necklace from so long ago, the pure white diamonds sparkling in the sunshine. She clutched at her child, as though he offered her a scorpion.

"Naturally, it was I who took the necklace in the first place. It proved to be a very productive enterprise. Good day, Madame."

I'm going to be doing National Novel Writing Month again this year. As in every year, this is really a bad year for it, as I'm far too busy. However, if I don't throw my hat over the wall, I'll never go over.

My progress will be noted via the little widget over on the left. Feel free to ask me how it's going, or to join me in the lunacy.

What will I be writing about? Assuming I don't decide to work on something completely different between now and November, astute readers of this blog will be able to get an indication of the starting point for my novel based on the title I've posted over on NaNo. Non-astute readers... no, never mind, you're all astute.

Welcome, Visitor!

This is my writing blog, which means you'll find fiction (short, medium and long), thoughts, ideas, experiments and other grammatically correct prose. The pages at the top will take you to my publications and samples of my writing. I'd love to know what you think, so feel free to leave comments on anything you read.

What I write: flash fiction, action/adventure, science fiction, horror and fantasy. I also write geeky, funny poetry, including the ever popular "Ode to the Semicolon"

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See that? I said "please". That's me being polite. I didn't have to do that. I could have said, "... or else I will use whatever eldritch magiks I can lay hands on so as to bind your plagiarist sins to your soul with bands of thorn and fire for the rest of all eternity."